


the scent of tangerines

by pan_dora II (pan_dora)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Polish traditions, Saint Nicholas Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_dora/pseuds/pan_dora%20II
Summary: “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the sourest of sourwolves existing in this very universe?”“You,” Derek informs him shifting his eyebrows back into the 'you’re an idiot' position. Which, rude. “Many times.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 340





	the scent of tangerines

Derek huffs out a breath and stares at him from across the loft. Nothing conveys ‘this is ridiculous’ quite as much as the position of his eyebrows. Stiles has had enough conversations with them to pride himself to be the only person in the pack who is able to not only analyse but also notice even the slightest change in their positioning. So, it’s pretty damn obvious that Derek thinks he’s an idiot but is nice enough not to say it outright. Which is another thing he can put an exclamation mark behind. Not everybody is safe from his deadpan comments.

Glaring back at him, Stiles presses his hands against the kitchen counter. Silence stretches between them.

It lasts for about a second.

“ _Derek_ ,” he snaps throwing the tangerine back into the fruit bowl, “why are you so opposed to everything nice?” Stiles has lost count of all the discussions they’ve had about completely mundane things – movie nights with the pack, a new couch, a bookshelf for all his books, a better stove. Anything that results in comfort or happiness is something Derek vehemently rejects. If they have to talk about his self-worth again, he’s going to need a strong drink. They’ve been over this a million times.

Derek keeps looking at him, adds a little tilt of the head to his raised eyebrow. _I don’t know why you keep asking_.

“Come on, big guy.” Stiles slinks around the counter, steps silent on the fluffy carpet – the one _he_ made Derek buy because his loft is still cold and empty and uninhabitable after two years of living here – pointing at the innocent brown box sitting on the coffee table. “Do it for the pack. They’re gonna love it.” The only time Derek looked at it, one could think inside is a ticking time bomb instead of boots filled with deliciousness for Cora and the boys as well as tangerines and a new lipstick for Lydia and Erica. Well, and Jackson gets a lacrosse ball instead of chocolate. He _planned everything,_ okay? And he didn’t do that for everything to sit there, silent and probably questioning its purpose in life while Derek tries his best to ignore its presence.

Another huff. Now he even crosses his arms.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re the sourest of sourwolves existing in this very universe?”

“You,” Derek informs him shifting his eyebrows back into the ' _you’re an idiot_ ' position. Which, rude. “Many times.”

Stiles throws his hands in the air again for good measure even though he knows that exasperation doesn’t go anywhere. Derek is as stubborn as a stone wall which is incidentally what he feels like when bumping into him. Stiles has experience. “Listen-"

“We are dealing with a man-eating owl,” Derek interrupts him curtly.

Stiles scowls. “It’s called a Strzyga.”

“If you still want to play Santa, you can do it after it’s dead.”

“It’s not _Santa_.” Stiles flares up jabbing a finger in the direction of Derek’s chest. “It’s St. Nicholas - Święto Mikołaj, if that’s helping to get it through your thick skull – and he brings gifts on the night of the fifth to the sixth of December. I can’t do it _later_.” This discussion is annoying him more than it should he. It’s literally just small presents in the boots of every pack member. That’s a tradition for children, yes, but _still_. His mom used to do it when he was younger. They all got presents. He, his dad, she even bought herself a little something – or his dad got her present. He’s not quite sure of the logistics. It was a nice gesture, that’s all.

Derek draws his eyebrows together, and Stiles stiffens. Again, they’re looking at each other in silence. But this time Derek breaks it, “fine. If it’s that important to you.”

Although he's gotten his will in the end, Stiles is everything but satisfied. He shouldn’t have to _force_ Derek to do things like that. “It’s like your allergic to joy or something.”

Only a single eyebrow is raised now, and it’s clearly telling him not to push it any further. It’s fair. Kind of. But he’s really just trying to do something good for the pack after all the mess they’ve been through ever since the Argents rolled back into town almost three years ago. They barely had the chance to breathe between the fucking hunters, the kanima, the alpha pack and now. There’s always been something going on. Even now. But they’re on patrol anyway, they can totally drop off the boots at every door. It’s not even a detour.

With another huff, Derek scoops the box up and walks to the door without looking back.

Stiles fist-bumps the air.

It has been raining cats and dogs for the past two hours now. The owl-lady won’t be out hunting tonight. _Nobody_ will leave the house in this weather. He hasn’t seen a single car for a good half an hour. Derek’s Camaro goes at a crawl, windscreen wipers darting back and forth throwing water around. The car heater is on full blast but Stiles shudders anyway, his wet clothes sticking to his body. To be honest, he’s surprised Derek let him back into his car. After he’s dropped the last boot off at Lydia’s house and the rain set in, He didn’t make it halfway back to the car before Stiles was drenched.

Derek simply threw a blanket on the passenger’s seat and turned the heating on.

Stiles shudders and holds his hands in front of the ventilation. It helps a little bit, but he’d need a full-body blow dryer for full effect. Screw this weather. _Hard_. Sure, he didn’t expect the snow experience during Saint Nicholas Day. They’re living in California and not even somewhere in the mountains, but this rain is horrendous. Having a holiday season like his mother used to have will forever be a dream. She looked happy, tho, on that picture his dad has found when he sorted out the stuff, they’re keeping in the attic two weeks ago. Standing knee-deep in snow, a gigantic snowman next to her, she beamed into the camera with a wide, gap-toothed grin. She was so young and so happy, and she clutched a boot filled with sweets and chocolate Santa Claus to her chest. Stiles can only imagine how sad she must’ve been when they moved to California only a few years later and all that snowy goodness became nothing but memories.

“How many boots are left?” Derek asks pulling him out of his thoughts.

Dragging his gaze away from the windscreen and the rain behind it, Stiles glances over his shoulder despite knowing exactly how many boots are left. “Three,” he replies after a pause, still partially drowned in his mother’s childhood memories he only learned about via a picture instead of her colourful stories. She was good at telling stories. Even the most fantastical ones have felt so real. “One for Isaac, Cora and you.”

“For me?” Derek sounds actually surprised.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course, or are you too tough for presents, Alpha Hale?”

For a few seconds, the rain, car and windscreen wipers are the only things making noise. Then Derek shakes his head, and Stiles watches in amazement as the smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he says in a much quieter voice than expected, “I just didn’t think-“

“I’d get you something?” Stiles sighs, pokes Derek’s arm with a finger. “We’ve talked about this, you know? _Multiple_ times.” His boot was the first Stiles snatched from his bedroom when Derek busied himself with lecturing Isaac about something he can’t remember. His boot was also the one he finished first. Derek deserves nice things, even if he never sees it that way. It’ll take a lot more time to make the guy see that the teenagers he’s bitten grew into more than just a pack. They’re a family, and they love each other even if they bicker and annoy each other constantly. That’s just what siblings do. “You’re a good alpha.”

Derek draws his eyebrows together.

Stiles punches his arm lightly. “Nobody’s perfect, big guy.”

Still no reply. The brows shift into a complicated frown instead. Now, this is going swimmingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek glances at him then the street again. The rain is still going strong, but his supernatural sight makes driving probably a lot easier. “Why is this so important to you?”

“What?”

Derek points in the general direction of the box of boots on the backseat.

Stiles pulls his shoulders up in a slow shrug, then wraps his arms around his shins. “It’s a nice tradition I read up on.” He did read up on it. Years ago. After his mother’s death. Derek’s gaze is palpable on his cheek but Stiles keeps his eyes firmly locked on the wipers flying back and forth, barely doing anything to clear the view. He swallows. Time for a change in topic. “You think she’s out hunting tonight?”

“Not anymore.”

A shudder runs down his spine. The source, Stiles cannot quite pinpoint. “If you drop me off at home, I can try to make a geographic profile or something. Maybe it’ll help us pin her down.” He's done sitting ducks, waiting for one of the werewolves to catch a scent – he’s done wallowing in a wave of sadness he hasn’t asked for. Busying himself with the boots was nice for the moment, but he’s done now.

“Your dad's at work,” Derek tells him, “you can do it at the loft.”

Cora and Isaac were already asleep when they came back home, so they didn’t need to worry about putting the boots down. Derek went through his own, offering to share its contents with him, eventually forcefully shoving the small chocolate Santa into his hand with such ferocity that Stiles was sure he would’ve unwrapped and force-fed it to him if he had declined one more time. It’s a bit excessive but he knows Derek means well. Stiles wants the pack to have something to be excited about. Maybe next year he’ll get his own boot filled with little goodies. He'd like for the tradition to find a new home here.

“I think I have an area,” Stiles says pulling Derek’s a bit too large sweatpants over his feet for more warmth. Despite the dry and cosy clothes, he’s still cold. Probably because the loft isn’t exactly built to keep in the heat.

Derek leans over his shoulder. His body heat wraps around him, and Stiles tries not to sigh or snuggle closer. He can smell the tangerine he ate a few minutes ago. “Where?”

Too aware of their proximity, Stiles doesn’t react immediately. He should be over this. He _has_ to get over this. “See those four small circles?” he asks pointing at the markers on the map spread out on the desk – a laptop would’ve helped, but Derek doesn’t like modern technology all too much. Really, it’s a miracle he has a smartphone. “Those are the places the mauled bodies were found. The more bodies, the more accurate this will be but as for now I have this-" he points at a cross in the middle of the four small circles- “so, it’s possible that’s where it lives. And that-" now, he traces the largest circle encapsulating all the smaller ones- “is their hunting ground.” Stiles scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. “Potentially.”

Derek nods and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezes gently. _You did good_. “I’ll go out with the others tomorrow to check it out.” He straightens again, steals his warmth but the hand lingers.

Despite himself, Stiles places his own over Derek’s. He knows he shouldn’t. He usually wouldn’t. This isn’t a gesture of comfort. Stiles doesn’t need anybody to hold onto. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy the feeling of Derek’s skin underneath his. Because he does. More than he probably should. Stiles closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

For a second, time stops moving.

Derek moves his hand, just a small shift of position, and his fingers slide between his. They fit perfectly like they’re meant to be intertwined with his. His pulse skyrockets and Stiles sucks in a breath, holds it, waits. One heartbeat. Another. He tightens his grip on Derek’s hand, squeezes slightly. It makes a scary amount of sense, and perhaps that’s why none of this comes as a surprise. The touch feels natural, their fingers intertwining like they have done it a million times before.

“You could’ve told me about your mom.”

Stiles leans his cheek against their hands. “I wanted you to wanna do this.”

“I want-” he breaks off, clears his throat. "Never mind.”

Licking his lips, Stiles cranes his neck and looks up at Derek. He’s smiling a little, corners of his mouth curled upward just enough to be visible. “What?” Stiles asks, turning on the chair, still holding on go Derek’s hand. “What do you want?”

“You,” he says, pauses as long as it takes his gaze to jump from Stiles' eyes to his mouth and back again, then adds, “happy.”

“Just happy?”

Without replying, Derek pulls him to his feet, tugs him closer. The answer hides in the way he tilts his head to the left, the way he shared his present and his clothes and his space, the way he holds his hand like he’s too fragile, too valuable to be handled anything but careful. The truth is a light, bright and shining and it drew Stiles in from the very beginning – from Derek showing up at his place, from Derek being there for him, from Derek trusting him.

Stiles locks eyes with him, curls his fingers around the back of Derek’s neck. His world shrinks to hazel, to soft lips and the scent of tangerines. Fingers work through his hair, run down his neck, his spine, finds their place on the small of his back. They crash into each other, lips meeting teeth and tongue. Stiles presses against him until there’s not a single part of his body without Derek’s warmth, until every single drop of blood running through his body is singing the melody his heart dances to. Derek holds onto him, never lets go of his hand, reciprocates the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he receives.

Derek’s hold on him tightens for a second, then he slings both arms around Stiles’ waist. His lips curve into a smile before he pulls away and presses their foreheads together.

Stiles keeps his eyes shut, clutches to his nerves' excitement, and can’t help a grin when Derek nudges his nose. He wonders if he will remember the taste of tangerine on Derek’s tongue, it’s scent on his breath when they’ve kissed a hundred times. He wonders if he will remember this, if he will be able to paint this moment in bright colours in years to come. He wants to say something and simultaneously hopes they will stay like this forever, in each other’s arms, each other’s space.

Eventually, Stiles clears his throat. “I want you to be careful tomorrow,” he whispers dragging his thumb in small circles over the nape of Derek’s neck. “No self-sacrificing bullshit, you hear me?”

Derek presses their lips together for only a second. Stiles can feel his smile. “Not when I can come home to you.”


End file.
